He’d scrawled a note on a small sheet of paper, torn off of a pad with the heading, “From the Desk of Richard Thompson.”
The note read:
Dearest Adelina, I must travel to Saudi Arabia and possibly Pakistan in the next few days. I’ll be in touch.
She sagged in relief when she read the note.
Dearest Adelina. As if. He must have thought the nanny would see the note. Or he was truly a sociopath. She didn’t know which, and right now she didn’t care. What she knew was that his absence meant an unexpected reprieve from the daily grinding fear that she didn’t realize had overwhelmed her for the last month.
Month, she thought. It had only been a month since he’d returned to the United States. Only a month since she’d left San Francisco to occupy this condominium on the edge of the nation’s capital.
As she stood there, tears running down her face, she tried to picture how she was possibly going to survive her marriage to Richard. During his assignment in Pakistan, it had seemed bearable. She’d been alone with her daughter in San Francisco. She’d made friends, gotten involved in the church. She’d begun to have a life again.
His return had swept all that away. Again. And he might be gone today, but she knew he’d return, tomorrow or next week or next month, and his return would spell the return of instability, of fear, of the lies and twisted behavior. As she thought about it, her breath sped up, and she could feel the tightening in her chest, the constricting threads of fear tugging at her neck.
She forced herself to breathe, but even her breathing became ragged.
As the wave of panic swept over her, she began to pray, head bowed, until she fell to her knees. She didn’t realize she had tears pouring down her cheeks. She didn’t realize her shoulders were shaking.
She didn’t realize that she was coming apart at the seams.
She sank down into her prayers, her fingers unconsciously running along the beads of her rosary, her lips moving silently, trying to calm the terror.
“Mama?”
Julia’s voice didn’t initially break into her consciousness.
“Mama? I’m hunngy.”
This time she heard Julia, the high-pitched whining voice breaking over her prayers.
“Hunngy. I’m hunngy.”
God damn it, couldn’t she see—
Adelina froze. Of course she couldn’t see the condition Adelina was in. Julia wasn’t even three yet.
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes and said in a shaking voice, “Okay, Julia. Want to come pray with me first?”
“I hunngy,” Julia said. Her eyes were huge.
Adelina let out a staggered, broken breath and stood up. The fear wasn’t gone. It felt like a huge welt on her chest. She furiously wiped at the tears that had fallen down her face and lifted Julia to the sit on the counter.
“I’ll make you some breakfast,” Adelina said.
“Some cereal?” she asked, words coming out automatically. Heart still thumping rapidly in her chest, she turned to get the cereal, but Julia said, “Wan’ ice cream.”
“No ice cream, Julia. You can have cereal or yogurt.”
“Ice cream!” Julia demanded. “Wan’ chocolate!”
Adelina closed her eyes. “I don’t have chocolate ice cream.”
She took down the cereal and poured it in a plastic bowl, then added milk. In three weeks she’d be twenty years old. The thought made tears run down her face again. She was twenty, and her father was dead, and her life was hopeless.
She set the bowl on the highchair tray then lifted Julia into the chair. Julia began to scream. “Ice cream! Ice cream!”
Adelina wanted to scream too. She readjusted the tray after bucking Julia in. Julia was full out crying now, and Adelina was desperate just to get her to shut up. The pain in her chest was getting worse, and all she could think of was the fact that she wasn’t even twenty years old yet and she wanted out. She wanted her mother. She wanted her father. She wanted her life back, and she couldn’t have it.
She sank back against the counter, the screaming from Julia unabated. Julia hit her bowl with a fist and it went flying, spattering milk and cereal on the wall.
For just a second Adelina felt rage flood her again. She turned away, walking into the living room and clenched her fists at the side of her head. She fought down the urge to scream, to yell at Julia, to throw something, to break something. She fought it down, but as she did so, she felt the tightening in her chest worsen.
The knock on the door startled her.
Oh, thank God! That would be Jenny, the nanny. Adelina rushed to the door and opened it in a rush.
Jenny was twenty-two—three years older than her employer—and a student at University of the District of Columbia. She was smart and pretty.
Adelina was envious. Jenny might be dirt poor, taking on this job to help buy her books for her night courses, but she was making choices for her own life. Choices that had been taken from Adelina.
“Bless you,” Adelina whispered urgently. “She’s a terror this morning. Come in.”
Jenny’s eyes widened at the sight of the screaming Julia in her highchair and the mess of cereal and milk splattered on the wall.
At the sight of Jenny, Julia screamed even louder. “Mommy! Don’ go! Don’ go! Mommmmyyyyy!”
Adelina swallowed the pain in her chest. “It’s all right, Julia. I’ll be back soon.” She gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek and rushed back to her room to change. With luck, she’d have time to stop for a cup of coffee in relative peace, outside the house, before she went to the church.
Adelina. February 27, 1984.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Adelina whispered as she made the sign of the cross. Father Dennis waved his hand and muttered a blessing, and she felt a shudder as she said the next words. “Lord, you know all things. You know that I love you. It has been three years since my last confession.”
Father Dennis shifted his position. Though the church had confessionals, Adelina had requested they meet in his office. She kneeled across from him, and occasionally her eyes darted to the purple stole he wore. On one level, it was calming, reminding her of the presence of God and of Father Dennis’s authority.
On another level, it terrified her. After all, it was the Parish priest in Calella, acting under the authority of God, who had ordered her to marry Richard. If only she hadn’t had to move to her mother’s home in Calella. If only her father hadn’t died.
If only she’d never met Richard Thompson.
She took a deep breath, not knowing where to start.
“You may begin,” Father Dennis said.
Her voice tiny, her body full of shame, Adelina said, “I don’t know how to.”
He reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder. “The Lord knows the story already, Adelina. If you’re penitent, then just tell it however you can.”
She nodded, and, horrified, choked back a sob. Sniffing, she said, “These are my sins.”
She squeezed her eyes closed, tightly, and whispered, “For three years I’ve lied to everyone around me to protect my brother.”
“What have you lied about?”
“My age. My husband.”
“Tell me the truth now.”
She choked on the words. Then she spit them out. “I was sixteen, and he raped me. I hate him. Father, I know he’s my husband, but I hate him. Sometimes I imagine him rotting in jail. Or in hell. I think of the most dreadful things.”
Father Dennis paled. “Your husband raped you? Before you were married?”
She nodded. The tears were streaming rapidly down her face now, and she shook, terrified.
“I’m so sorry, Adelina, I had no idea. Did you report it to the police? Wait, now you … how did you end up married?”
She struggled to get her mouth around the words. But then she told the story, of how her mother had dragged her to the parish priest in Calella.
He muttered to himself, then said, “I’m so
sorry, Adelina.”
“That’s not the worst of it,” she said. She looked up, looking in his eyes, and she said, “Father, I’ve fantasized—about killing him. About … about running away. Sometimes I get so angry I’m afraid I’ll hurt my daughter.”
“You must learn to control your anger, Adelina.”
“I pray for that every day,” she whispered.
“Continue to do so. You mustn’t hurt your daughter. Or your husband. I believe—Adelina, I believe you should report this to the police. Or allow me to do so.”
Terror flooded Adelina. She jerked back, and said, “You wouldn’t!”
He smiled reassuringly. “I wouldn’t, unless you gave me permission. You remember the story of Saint John of Nepomuk?”
She shook her head. “I … no.”
“Saint John was the confessor to the Queen of Bohemia. It seemed that Wenceslaus, the King, thought the Queen was committing adultery, and ordered John to divulge the secrets of the confessional. When he refused, the King had him tortured and murdered, then thrown in the river.”
Adelina shivered, imagining with horror what it must have been like for the priest. “And he didn’t tell?”
“No, Adelina. He went to his death to protect the Seal of the Confessional.”
“My priest didn’t. He told my mother when I learned I was pregnant.”
Father Dennis closed his eyes. “He committed a grave crime in doing so. I assure you, God will deal with him. But I can promise you, no such thing will happen now.”
She looked at Father Dennis and said, “Is it a sin to hate my husband?”
He sighed. “Perhaps not so uncommon a sin, and given your circumstance—the fact is, if you are truly contrite, you shall be forgiven. I would urge you to consider what I’ve suggested to you. Your husband committed a crime, and against a child.”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “He’ll hurt my brother. He’s threatened to before, and I believe him.”
Dennis sighed. “Then I suggest you pray. Perhaps you can be a moderating influence on Richard. And you can still raise your daughter. Do you intend to have any further children?”
Adelina shivered. Then she whispered, “I’d rather die.”
“I must advise you against artificial contraception.”
Adelina nodded. Birth control was the least of her worries.
“Finally—though I know this is hard given the circumstances of your marriage—you must remember that Richard is your husband. Cleave to him, and perhaps you can somehow bring him back into the path of God. Is he Catholic?”
She shook her head. “Anglican,” she said. “But not devout. The only thing he believes in is himself.”
“Teach him as best you can. Perhaps through your daughter.”
Adelina knew the advice was sound, but all the same, it made her want to vomit. She felt more desperate than ever.
“I will,” she whispered. “What is my penance?”
“I’d like you to read First Peter, chapter three, and think on the instructions given within. Not just of wives, but also of husbands. You’re subject to him, but you can also set an example, and bring him to the Lord.”
She nearly recoiled from him. She would read the verses. But they frightened her.
“Yes, Father.”
He brought her the book and they read it together. As they read the words, she felt fresh tears begin to stream down her face.
Wives, in the same way, accept the authority of your husbands, so that, even if some of them do not obey the word, they may be won over without a word by their wives’ conduct when they see the purity and reverence in their lives.
The words made her angry. She felt her fists clench, and her first thoughts were rebellious. She didn’t want to be an example to Richard. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to walk away. She wanted him to go to hell.
She closed her eyes. Mary hadn’t taken the easy way out. When she realized the fullness of God’s plans for her child, she didn’t run away. She didn’t hide her child. She let him be raised up, exalted, hammered to the Cross in shame and disgrace and terror and pain.
Adelina didn’t have that sort of courage. She could admire it. She could wish for it. But how was she to live it?
Father Dennis began to pray. “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
Adelina bowed her head and choked out the word, “Amen.”
As she left the church, she kept thinking to herself that she felt no relief. She felt no guidance. God and the Church expected her to simply be submissive, to let Richard continue to do whatever he wanted.
It was wrong. It was so wrong. She found herself running as she exited the front door and rushed down the front steps. It was cold again, winter returning with fierceness, a chill biting right through her inadequate clothes. The sky was nearly black with dark, roiling clouds. Her heels clicked on the front steps as she ran down them, barely paying attention to what she was doing. Tears ran down her face, and she began to sob as she started to sprint.
But then she came to a sudden stop. Because a car stood next to the curb, and standing next to it, blocking her way with an open and hopeful expression on his face, was George-Phillip Windsor.
Andrea. May 2. 1:45 pm.
“I’m getting kind of hungry,” Andrea said.
“Yeah, me too,” Dylan said. “We’ll get something after this.”
As he spoke, his eyes scanned the desks where the library patrons sat at the computers. Just to be on the safe side, they’d taken the Washington Metro out to the Virginia suburbs. The library was busy, and the dozen computers lined up on three long tables were all in use. The library was well lit by long lines of overhead fluorescent lights, and the place was crowded. At the opposite end of the building, a large crowd of children sat in a circle around the librarian, who was reading a story. Young mothers stood nearby, some of them chatting, others reading, all of them looking relieved to have a few minutes’ break from their children during story-time.
“There,” Dylan muttered.
A woman at one of the computer tables stood and shouldered her bag, then walked away.
Andrea breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the woman hadn’t logged out. They’d been surprised to learn that access to the computers in the library required a current library card—which neither of them had.
She followed Dylan as he slumped into the seat and opened up a web browser. He started with The Washington Post.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
Andrea felt her eyes widen. The entire front page of the website was devoted to the attack on the Thompsons, underneath a huge headline.
Secretary of Defense Elect’s Family Homes Attacked
Adelina Thompson, Two Children Missing: Sources Speculate Drug Connection
Underneath the headline were smaller stories and photographs, including individual photos of her mother, Jessica, Dylan, and Andrea. Andrea felt her breath accelerate as she squeezed in beside Dylan and looked at the story. The newspaper also had photos of the entrance to the Bethesda condo and the burned out house in San Francisco.
“Jesus,” Dylan muttered again. His voice was low. “I talked to your mother last night. Just for a second—that’s when the shooting started.”
“Do you think she’s hurt?” Andrea whispered.
“Probably on the run,” he said. “She called to warn us to get you out. It was just too late.”
“What the hell is going on?”
He shook his head. “Beats me. All I know is, we’re staying under the radar until we know more. Check this out.” He pointed.
One of the several articles described a press conference that morning. It didn’t make any sense. Richard Thompson was accused of corruption a
nd money laundering. The feds had put out a warrant for her arrest as a conspirator.
“That’s what the drugs were about,” he said, “and the money.” He looked at her. “I bet the bills we have are marked somehow.”
She nodded. “Maybe we can go … I don’t know … buy a bunch of prepaid credit cards?”
“Not too many in any one place. If the money gets tracked—say through a bank—it might link back to the card. We’ll buy a few at a time in several different places, I think. And … new clothes. Haircuts.”
“You could use a shave,” Andrea said.
Dylan grinned, his teeth showing up white in the midst of a darkening beard. “That’s what Alex always says. But that photo shows me clean shaven, so I’m gonna let it grow.”
“We can’t go back to the hotel.”
“Nope,” he said. “Pretty soon they’ll match up the fingerprints, if not today, then tomorrow. And then the surveillance cameras will show up on the Metro.”
She grimaced. “What do we do?”
“Hold on. I’m not out of options yet. But once we’re finished here, we’ve got to book.”
He turned back to the computer and opened up Facebook, then logged in. Then he typed in a name: Christopher Mendoza.
The page that came up showed a grinning man with short-cropped black hair and a five o’clock shadow, wearing a grey sweatshirt with the word ARMY on it. The About section on the page said, “US Army, Arlington, Virginia.”
“Who is that?” Andrea asked.
“Old friend,” Dylan replied. He opened up a message box and typed in the message: What’s up, Border Bunny?
The response was nearly immediate: Redneck motherfucker. What do you want?
Andrea sucked in a breath. What did Border Bunny mean? Motherfucker she could figure out.
Dylan: Calling in a favor. Priority 1. Need help now.
Mendoza: Wut u need?
Dylan: Place to sleep. And a ride. I’ll explain later, but if you help me you could go to jail.
Mendoza: Sick. Where?
Dylan: Clarendon Metro. 3 pm.
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